


Cold Comfort

by ApexOnHigh



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Common Cold, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-29 05:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/pseuds/ApexOnHigh
Summary: Finhatedbeing sick.





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatBohoFemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatBohoFemme/gifts).



Fin sneezed, reached for his box of tissues, and then cursed when he found it empty.

He  _hated_ being sick.

He especially hated being sick enough, as he was today, that he’d had to call out from work. It felt weak on his part, almost embarrassing, to have to do so. To be feeling _this_ down and unable to function from nothing but a stupid cold or flu bug?

But he’d woken up in no state to even drag himself out of bed for several hours this morning. He’d felt sweaty and weak, achy all over, even nauseous anytime he moved too much or too quickly. Merely making the call in to the captain to explain his situation had been struggle enough. There would have been no way he’d have been good for anything at the 13th precinct today, except napping in the crib.

Besides, his partner was a raging germaphobe. So much as sniffle in John’s direction and the man would be donning a face mask and complaining about exposure to infectious diseases.

So Fin had stayed at home, sleeping most of the morning away (or at least attempting to, between fitful sneezing attacks and bouts of fevered sweats). By noon he had managed to make his way to the sofa and had stayed there since, under a warm blanket and with the remote control within easy reach. Not that there was much on to watch, but one station was running an unending marathon of old episodes of _The A-Team_. It was mind-numbingly stupid and amusing enough to keep him distracted between fitful naps.

Early evening had eventually rolled around, and now he was out of tissues. He was still too weak to consider going to the corner deli to get some more, so he figured he would have to make do with a spare roll of toilet paper instead. Not his finest moment, but who was here to judge him?

He shuffled into the kitchen, at one point, telling himself he should try to eat something. Or at least drink something. But nothing held any appeal and standing that long made him feel woozy. So he returned to the sofa with nothing but a glass of water and then switched over to the early local news. It was a Monday night, so there’d be some football to watch later on. If he were still awake. At least he’d be able to watch the game without John complaining or interrupting his concentration.

He listened with failing attention to the news, glad to hear nothing that sounded like it could have been an SVU case he’d missed helping out on thanks to his illness. He was still drifting in and out of light sleep when he swore he heard someone knocking at his door. Not too loud, nor too insistent, but a light knock for sure.

He hoped whomever it was would go away if he ignored them. Maybe it was his neighbor Irma who occasionally borrowed some of his books and wanted to chat about them. She was a sweet older lady, just kind of lonely, but he was in no state for her company tonight.

After a brief pause of silence, the knocking started up again. Fin was determined to continue ignoring it. But then he heard the sound of someone trying to _unlock_ the door, with a key, and that’s when he woke up enough to get to his feet and see who the hell it was.

It was either his landlord, who damn well better have a good explanation for trying to get in without notice, or it was...

“Munch, the hell are you doing here?” he asked when the door swung upon—at least as far as it would go with the security chain in place.

“Bringing you chicken soup—the best in the five boroughs.” John lifted a plastic bag so that Fin could see it. “Can I come in?”

“I’m sick. Probably contagious.”

“Yeah, well...” John shrugged. “We spent most of last week on stakeout in your car. And the rest of the time sweating it out in my bed. I’m already exposed to whatever germs you caught and I’ll no doubt be in your state by later this week.”

“Right. Hold on.” Fin closed the door to undo the chain, then shuffled to the side as John stepped inside when he re-opened it. “Don’t expect to get any action out of me tonight, soup or no soup.”

“Shockingly, your physical affections are not the only reason I desire your company. Now, point me in the direction of a suitable—and clean—pot so I can warm this up.”

“Just stick it in the microwave.”

“No, microwave radiation destroys too many nutrients.”

“Fine.” Fin sighed and trudged into the kitchen, nudged open a lower cabinet door with his toe and pointed. “There. Help yourself.”

“Thank you. Now go sit down. Lie down. One or the other. Just get off your feet and out of my way.”

“Be glad to.”

Fin slumped back down on the sofa, feeling exhausted by the small effort of answering the door and walking to the kitchen. He closed his eyes, and actually started to drift back asleep until he felt a weight settle down near him. John was there, with a tray table set up in front of them. On it were two bowls of soup, a bag of saltine crackers, and two steaming hot mugs of tea.

“Looks good,” Fin had to admit, struggling to sit up a bit. He wished his nose wasn’t so clogged up so he could actually smell any of it.

“Don’t just stare at it, eat some. You’re looking a bit dehydrated. In fact I might get you some gatorade from the bodega on the corner before they close for the night.”

“Munch, don’t kill yourself. Please. This is enough.” More than enough, Fin thought to himself, feeling guilty after being so grumpy when Munch first showed up. He was going to say something to that effect when another round of sneezing came over him. “Though I am out of tissues,” he admitted, rubbing his sore nose on the sleeve of his robe.

“I will get you some after we eat.”

Fin could barely taste the soup, thanks to this damn cold, but it went down warm and easy. In fact he found he was hungrier than he’d thought. He got through about two-thirds of his bowl and half the saltines before declaring defeat.

“Finished?”

“Yeah. Think I’ll close my eyes for a bit.”

“You do that, I’ll clean up and do the quick run to the corner.”

“Thanks. Hey, John…?”

“Yes?”

“Just...thanks, man.” There was a lot more he could say—maybe a lot more he _should_ say. But they never communicated like that. It wasn’t their style.

John understood, nodding in response with the smallest twitch of a smile. “You’re my partner. Anytime.”

And it felt good, really good, to have a parter like that.  _His_ partner, in more ways than one.


End file.
